


Who's Walking Who

by dansunedisco



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Background Relationships, Best Friends, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexuality, Demisexuality, Dogs, Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Matchmaker Natasha Romanov, Matchmaking, Past Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 10:43:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15022886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: Steve wants a dog. Says over breakfast, “I really want one, Sam.”-Sam, Steven and a badly behaved dog + Natasha and Bucky as dog trainers + a whole lot more.





	Who's Walking Who

**Author's Note:**

> this has been languishing in my gdocs since may 2016. i've come to the conclusion i won't ever resolve all the loose ends like i want to, but anyway. i figured i might as well throw this into the world. maybe someone will enjoy this pre-samtasha but is currently 100% friendship fic. :)

Steve wants a dog. Says over breakfast, “I really want one, Sam.”

“You do realize we aren’t _actually_ a married couple, right?” Sam replies, because he and Steve have been living together for over a year now, and Mr and Mr Rogers-Wilson has been a running joke the entire time, but c’mon. A dog? Steve just gives him a flat look, all _you’re gonna have to try harder to get out of this one._ Which: okay, fair. Steve Rogers is literally the most stubborn person Sam has ever met (a title which he reserved for Auntie Jeannie, _until_ ), and if he wants a dog, well, good luck stopping him. But Sam _has_ been living with Steve for over a year, and they’re basically married, so he knows a thing or two about tactical deflection. “We both work odd hours, dude. We won’t be able to provide it the _love_ and _attention_ it deserves. It’ll be stuck inside all day long, crying for its daddies.” Too thick? Maybe a little.

Steve, however, is not persuaded by the calculated tugs on his heartstrings. “Easy solution: we hire a dog walker.”

“That’ll get expensive.”

“It’s not like I don’t have the money.”

“What if one of us decides to move?” Damn, he’s good.

“Visitation rights are a thing.”

“Not for dogs, they’re not.”

“Sam,” Steve says, deploying the gentle tone with the head tilt. It’s not playing fair, and they both know it. “If you really don’t want one, I’ll respect that. This is your house, too. But I’m finally stable at work, I don’t plan on moving away anytime soon, and... I just think it would be nice to come home to someone who _actually_ likes me for once.”

“That’s a _low blow_ and you know it,” he says, and lets the idea of a dog really marinate because he’s soft, dammit. All told, it wouldn’t be the _worst_ ever idea. He had a family dog growing up. A little yorkie named Rocket, and he and Rocket got along just fine. He likes dogs. Though, admittedly, it’s more in the abstract sense where he’s not obligated to teach it to not pee all over the house and chew his brand new J’s to shreds. He’ll feed it, and walk it, and pick up after it; but he won’t be thrilled doing it.

He sighs. Did he just convince himself to get a dog with his not-husband? He did. He totally did. _Dammit._ He crunches on his Wheaties and shakes his head. “I’m gonna go to my grave not knowing how you persuade me into this shit. Seriously.”

The grin on Steve’s face blinds. “So that’s a yes?”

“Tentative,” he says. “Very, very tentative. I don’t want a demon dog, and I _know_ you, so I’m coming with you to choose.” He doesn’t even want to imagine the sad mongrel Steve would bring home, if he left Steve to his own devices.

Steve’s grin doesn’t slip. “Veto power is all yours, pal.”

 

\--

 

It takes Steve a week to decide where to go (which is an extra week of being dog-free, so it’s absolutely fine by Sam’s standards). He researches the ever-living crap out of each shelter in their area--and Sam gets the honor of hearing the details of _every single one_ , Heaven help him _\--_ and eventually decides on one that also trains therapy animals. “Do you know how much it costs to get just _one_ therapy dog trained? If I can help donate in any way, I’m doing it,” is how Steve ends his speech-rant, as if Sam hasn’t already agreed to the damn adoption thing, because he’s basically a confirmed saint.

They visit the shelter the following week. It’s big and looks clean from the outside. A door on the left proclaims it to be the vet’s entrance, with the door on the right to the adoption center. It’s off the beaten path too, backed up against a dense forest on a ten acre lot with a _lot_ of fenced-in dog runs. Gravel crunches under Sam’s shoes when he steps out of the car, and he flips his sunglasses up onto his head to better squint at the picturesque view. The shelter honestly looks more like a country club than a rescue for down-on-their-luck animals. The lawn is _manicured_ ; there’s a rose bush in full bloom by the vet door.

“Damn,” he says, impressed. They live in a Brownstone in Georgetown, and they don’t have a rose bush _or_ a manicured lawn. “How about if the dog takes our place, and we crash here.”

Steve raises his eyebrow. “Trading Places: Livin’ Ruff?”

“Concept’s solid, but the title _still_ ain’t punny enough for TLC,” he says, and holds the door open as Steve snickers to himself and brushes past.

Inside is just as clean and expansive, though the faint smell of wet dog is unmistakeable and unsurprising. Still, Sam thinks it’s nice for the place to have at least _one_ flaw. Steve immediately goes to the front desk, and Sam floats around the lobby, half-listening to Steve’s conversation. He is, more or less, toeing the line somewhere around invested and interested, but he would be lying if he didn’t say his ultimate goal was to make sure they didn’t bring home Cujo.

“Hey,” someone says, to his left, and Sam half-twists to greet them. The reply on his tongue dies as his brain blips offline for a beat because _good lord_ the woman looking up at him is full-blown gorgeous in twenty-five different ways. When it whirs back on, he fully turns to give her the patented Wilson Smile™. “Hey,” he says, allowing a moment to preen when her lips quirk up into a smile too. When he’s on, he’s _on_.

“You lookin’ for anything in particular?” she asks, and points at the bulletin board where Sam planted himself. A colorful flyer cheerfully declares: _20% DISCOUNT SPAY AND NEUTERS_.

He laughs. Dark humor. He can work with that. “I sincerely hope those aren’t my only two options. I’m here with—” he thumbs over his shoulder, “—that guy over there. He wants a dog something fierce. Think Christmas; labrador puppy with a red bow critical level.”

“Wow, that’s practically nuclear.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on damage control. I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Natasha.” She looks at Steve, who’s still engrossed with the guy behind the desk. “So, you and your boyfriend taking that next step?”

“Next step, sure. Boyfriends--eh, we had a go at it a few years ago and decided platonic soulmates was more our calling.” He watches Natasha take the information in, because anyone that may or may not step into the Mr and Mr Rogers-Wilson circle deserves to know their history right off the bat, and moves on, “You work here?”

She fingers the name tag clipped to her t-shirt. The ‘a’ in ‘Nat’ is in the shape of a cartoon cat. It’s disarmingly cute. Sam might be a little in love. “Sure do,” she says. “You looked a little lost before, but I see now that you have everything covered.”

“I could always use a little company,” he says, tucks his hands into his pockets with a mild shrug. “Maybe a woman on the inside. Steve -- that’s the friend -- is _the_ biggest bleeding heart you’ve ever seen, and I’m trying to avoid biting off more than we can chew.”

“Hmm. He _does_ look like a guy begging for eight dogs.”

“Of all different shapes and sizes. He’s indiscriminate like that.”

“Of course. Oh, but don’t let all those leashes fool you,” she says, deadpan. “He’s not done yet. Once the collection is complete, he’ll start dropping hints for a cat. A mean, fluffy one he’ll call Tibbles.”

“Man, it’s like you know him already.” 

“I’ve seen his type a time or two.” She gives him another smile, and motions over to the help desk. “Looks like Bucky’s gonna take you guys to the kennels, so. I’ll see you around.”

“Nice meeting you, Natasha.”

“Same,” she says, and it sounds like she means it.

 

\--

 

They adopt a medium-sized mutt named Doodle.

Steve is absolutely smitten. With both the adoption clerk _and_ the dog. ”Bucky names all the John Dogs,” he says during the car ride home, totally letting Doodle lick all over his impeccable jawline because he’s never heard of setting dog-boundaries before in his life, apparently. He still isn’t over the fact that they call the nameless dogs _John Dogs_ either. Steve is _five_. “I can’t believe this guy’s been at the shelter for five month.”

Sam winces. “It might have something to do with the missing leg,” he says, and holds his hand up to stave off the righteous fury Steve’s ready to unleash on Doodle’s behalf, “which, I mean, that’s messed up. I’m not saying that’s right. But Bucky _did_ say the dog—”

“Just call him ‘Doodle’, Sam. Will it kill ya?”

“— _Doodle_ was on the hard-to-adopt list.”

Steve visibly bristles, even though he totally knows Sam’s point is valid, and scratches behind Doodle’s ears like he’s trying to make up for all the terrible things that have ever happened to him with vigorous pets. A somber air settles in the air soon enough, and Sam sighs a little. He and Steve both came back from overseas a little worse for wear, their scars invisible but no less painful, and it’s not hard to project onto the orange-colored fuzzball no one wanted, for no good reason. Sam flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. It’s best to give Steve space, when he gets like this.

They’re halfway home when Steve breaks the silence. He clears his throat and asks, “So who was the girl?”

“ _Natasha_ ,” Sam replies, with feeling. A lot of feeling. They share a grin, and in that moment, all is well. One of the very first things Sam learned at the VA is that juking on your problems isn’t _always_ bad -- not entirely healthy, sure, but not _bad_. Recovery doesn’t always have to be fire and brimstone and constipated sadness. A little humor goes a long way.

“Did you get her number?” Steve asks.

“Did _you_ get Bucky’s?”

He wiggles his phone, eyebrows raised; _game set, pal_. “Do I need to show you how it’s done?”

“First of all, I wasn’t trying,” he says. “But good for you, man. Good for you.”

 

\--

 

Doodle is a menace. A teenaged canine who gives zero fucks. He chews through Steve’s new boots (“He’s just a kid, Sam!”), begs to go outside and then proceeds to pee _inside_ like he didn’t just spend thirty minutes tearing up turf (“He doesn’t know what he’s doing’s wrong, Sam!”), and has more energy than he knows what to do with (“I-- I ain’t got a comeback for this one”). It’s getting to be too much -- a dog with three legs shouldn’t be able to pull someone Sam’s size like he does -- and today? Today is the day their dog-shaped straw broke the camel’s back.

“Come get your dog, Steve!” Sam says, simultaneously wrangling Doodle into the house and unwinding the leash wrapped around his thighs. He’s -- he’s _pissed_ , is what he is. He’s done.

Steve tromps down the stairs, summoned by Sam’s severe tone. His eyes widen. “What happened?”

“Don’t give me that innocent look,” Sam says. He’s covered in mud and his palms are scratched up from where he was literally dragged through the park because Doodle couldn’t get his shit together. “You’re taking him to doggy boot camp. Tomorrow. I don’t care how you make it happen, but make it happen.”

The mere fact that he’s willing to use the term ‘doggy boot camp’ must convey how fully frustrated he is, because Steve just lifts his hand in an _okay, okay you win this one_ gesture that Sam rarely, if ever, gets -- so he just hands Doodle’s leash over with a deep frown, tentatively satisfied with winning today’s battle.

He washes up, and stews in his anger longer than he knows is necessary. Doodle is a dog, and a young one at that. It’s not like he’s going out of his way to make Sam mad. He just doesn’t know any better. It’s Sam’s job (and Steve’s too) to make sure they’re responsible pet parents, and nip Doodle’s problems in the bud before it’s too late. But life happened, and, like Sam warned from the very beginning, their free time since adopting Doodle was limited, and they never got around to taking him to his formal training class. Now, their rambunctious little shit is an _untrained_ rambunctious little shit.

A couple hours later, Sam leaves his bedroom to watch TV. Steve’s in the living room. He glances up from his book when Sam walks in, and gets that kind of stillness about him that means he’s waiting on Sam to make the first move -- testing the waters, so to speak. Doodle, on the other hand, perks up from his place at Steve’s feet, his little tail thumping against the carpet, his little pink tongue poking out as he pants. And, dammit, it’s impossible to stay mad.

Sam sighs, Steve smiles, Doodle prances over for pets, and all is forgiven.

 

\--

 

Doodle doesn’t transform into Rin Tin Tin overnight, but he gets better -- especially after Sam and Steve realize they’ve been doing several things very, very wrong on their end -- and Sam nearly weeps at the progress when Doodle _heels on command_.

They’re in the park, a mile into what was once his favorite running trail. Doodle didn’t try to dislocate Sam’s shoulder, not once. Not even a little bit. He looks up into the trees, at the skittering forest squirrels who won’t be antagonized by his dog ever again, and grins. It feels like a miracle. He could kiss Doodle’s trainer.

“You’re a good dog,” he cooes, when they make it home without any incidents, and scritches the best dog ever (he’s biased, okay?) behind his adorable, little ears. “You’re so smart, and we were so dumb. Oh, yes. Oh, _yes_ , you’re a good boy.”

“Who’s a good boy?” Steve asks. He’s leaned against the doorjamb of his study, arms folded across his chest, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his mouth: a smug bastard in all his smug glory. “Is it me?”

A month rolls by. Steve takes Doodle to his obedience class every Thursday and Tuesday like clockwork. He never asks Sam to tag along or go in his stead; mostly, Sam thinks, because Steve feels guilty for having been such a bad dog-parent that they needed to take Doodle there in the first place. Fine by him, he thinks. He does his part by following the pamphlets Steve brings home that outlines the do’s and don’ts.

Then, one Thursday afternoon, Steve asks Sam to fill in for him. “I have a deadline I can’t get out of,” he grumbles like he was really looking forward to going and is currently fantasizing swapping himself out with a robot-Steve, which Sam thinks is a little strange (the looking forward part; not so much the robots because his life is really, really weird now). It becomes less so when he sees who’s teaching Doodle’s class in the first place, and presumably, has been this whole time.

“Hey Doodle,” Bucky says, crouching down and extending his hand to Doodle for a sniff test, knuckles first. “Is Steve not coming tonight?” He glances up at Sam like an afterthought, but there’s a hopeful glint in his eyes that’s so obvious Sam almost bursts out laughing.

“Nope. It’s just us,” he says, grinning. He thought Steve had his crush on Bucky on _lock_. Clearly, not so much. Steve is going to hear about this for weeks to come. “He got caught up at work. He wanted to come, though.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Cool.”

Sam settles in with the class and introduces himself to his left and right: Bruce, with a chubby bulldog named Hulk, and Clint with a well-behaved labrador named Lucky.

The class is uneventful, but instructive. Sam learns a lot; including, and most importantly, that Bucky is just as gone on Steve as Steve is on him. After Bucky’s fourth lap around to ‘check up on Doodle’ and some very unsubtle attempt at prodding, Sam decides to take pity on the guy and play wingman. He’s not a fan of matchmaking, or meddling -- he’s not a fan of intrusive, helicopter friendships -- but for Steve’s potential happiness, he’ll do it. And he has a good idea on just where to start.

He finds Natasha after class concludes. He saw her teaching the very adorable Puppy Manners class, but he was running late to Doodle’s and didn’t have a chance to pop in and say hi. He hopes he’s not imagining the pleased look on her face when he and Doodle wander their way inside now. “Hey,” he greets.

“Hi,” she replies, and leans her hip against the counter. She’s wearing a fanny pack he knows is filled with treats, which should look absolutely ridiculous and hilariously dated, but she works it. “You guys looked mighty good out there.”

He grins. “What can I say? We’re naturally gifted.” Doodle, perhaps sensing that he, too, needs to sign off on this statement, gives a breathy woof of agreement.

“Adorable.” Natasha folds her arms across her chest. “So. What can I help you with, Sam?”

He knows Bucky and Natasha are friends, mostly because Steve’s mentioned it in passing, and he has a feeling she’s the type to be just as invested in Bucky’s well-being as he is in Steve’s. He also knows it’s weird -- hell, maybe a little creepy -- to talk to a relative stranger about another person who is also a stranger, but it is what it is. _For Steve_ is his reasoning.

He explains his side of things to Natasha; that is, the tentative flirtation and pining he’s seen between his best friend and their dog trainer, how much he dislikes inserting himself in the love life of others, but that just _this one time_ he’s willing to get nosy. “I think they just need a very gentle nudge,” he says.

Her eyes narrow. He can tell that she’s shrewd, and he likes that. “What kind of nudge are we talking about?”

“Steve’s birthday is coming up,” he says. They’ve had a barbeque with their friends and a few coworkers from their respective jobs for the past four years running, and it’d work as a casual shove in the right direction. “I’m going to convince Steve to invite Bucky.”

“And you want me to convince Bucky to accept,” she says. She tilts her head to the side, like she’s rolling the idea around for good measure, and then she smiles. “You’ve got yourself a ringer.”

They exchange numbers, shake on their deal, and Sam doesn’t feel bad about conspiring at all.

 

\--

 

The event he’s come to call The Barbeque Birthday Job goes off without a hitch.

It goes like this: Sam subtly talks Bucky and his Doodle-whispering prowess up for a week, which easily lends itself to dropping hints that Steve ought to invite the miracle worker himself to his birthday get-together as a thank you when they start crunching the guest list together. Steve, the sap, hems and haws about social cues for half a day before he finally texts the guy. Then he worries over the little grey dots that tick by on Bucky’s end until he gets an _thanks for the invite. :) what’s ur address?_ back.

“I mean, I think we’re friends,” Steve says at dinner, a full five hours after Bucky said he’s come to the party. “But is it too weird?”

It’s only a mildly stressful day for Sam.

 

\--

 

On the fourth of July, Bucky comes over. He brings Natasha with him.

Sam is, needless to say, very pleased. “You came,” he says, taking the case of beer she hands over as Bucky scampers off to greet the birthday boy.

“I did,” she replies. “Hope that’s alright.” She says it teasingly, a glint in her eye belaying that she knows Sam’s happy to see her.

All he can do is smile back. He likes her. It’s not a new realization, but it’s becoming harder to ignore the bite of attraction that lingers every time they interact -- the only problem is that Natasha’s proving much, much harder to read than he initially thought. Normally, Sam is a good read of people and their intentions. Natasha -- well, he’s still not sure if a move on his part would be welcome.

Today, she mingles with the crowd, charming everyone as she goes, looking completely comfortable without the crutch of a familiar face by her side. Bucky, on the other hand sticks close to Steve, looking way more comfortable with Doodle’s head in his lap than he does making small talk with strangers. _At least we know where those two stand_ , he thinks.

Sam exchanges a knowing glance with Natasha as their hapless friends dance around one another on the patio.

Natasha sidles up next to him. The air has cooled down, a rare breeze from the river taking away the sticky-hot heat of the summer. “Wanna make a bet?”

“I might be interested. What’re the stakes?”

She smirks. “Does it matter? The way I play, we both win.”

They clink their sweating beer bottles together.

 

\--

 

Sam isn’t a worrier. Not when it comes to dating or relationships. He’s _chill_ . He knows what he likes, what he doesn’t, and more importantly, he’s upfront about both. The fact that he lives with Steve, his best friend and ex-boyfriend? On the table. The reality that Steve will almost always come first? It’s out there. And yes, Sam realizes it’s weird— though he thinks _different_ might be a better word for it. Not a lot of people remain close after a breakup, and fewer still become _closer_ because of one. Still: it’s them, it works, and honestly? Sam hasn’t found a person he’s wanted to change it all for.

 _Until_ —

Steve starts to date Bucky.

The problem, of course, isn’t that Steve dates Bucky.

The problem is that Natasha comes as a packaged deal, too.

Which, again, isn’t the damn problem either.

After Steve and Bucky’s third date, she and Sam are formally introduced as the best friends and exchange _gosh, these two losers are serious about each other_ looks the rest of the night, as if they hadn’t played a part in the set-up to begin with. It’s great. They don’t mention the casual flirting at the shelter or at Steve’s birthday party either, because they’re adults, and realize they need to brace for fallout early, though Sam has a good feeling there won’t be any with Bucky. He’s hopeful Natasha feels the same. He’s pretty sure she does.

Then she comes over when Steve and Bucky sexile her (“More for their benefit than mine,” she says, with a small, knowing smile), and curls up on their couch and scratches Doodle’s ears like it’s just another Thursday night, like she’s always been on that corner of the couch. She has that way about her. She puts on a documentary while Sam does the reading for one of his classes, and then she quizzes him without his notes because she is, apparently, a damn genius, too. He cooks her dinner as a thank you, and she presses up onto her toes to kiss his cheek when she leaves.

“Hey,” he calls out, when she’s halfway to her car, but the words _go out with me sometime_ get caught up in his throat. “Drive safe,” he finishes lamely, and Natasha waves—a tiny wiggle of her fingers—and folds into her compact and drives away into the night. He watches the car zip down the street, casually thumping his head against the door-jamb until the glow of the tail lights disappear into the dark. He’s a goner. That much is clear. And _that,_ right there, is the problem.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” Steve says later, because he’s a jerk. They haven’t seen one another for a week, and they finally managed to squeeze a brunch date into their busy schedules. “Sam Wilson: unable to schmooze his way into a date.”

“I don’t ‘schmooze’. In fact, _no one_ this decade does. I got game, is what I got.”

“Mm. You got a lot of something, and I hate to break it to ya but it ain’t that.”

“Who’s got what now?” Bucky asks, sliding in next to Steve with a bounce. The cracked plastic of the booth creaks, and he throws an arm around Steve’s shoulder. It’s very domestic, and Sam doesn’t think about the empty spot next to him. Nope. Not at all.

“Sam’s just lamenting his poor relationship skills,” Steve says.

Sam answers with a very unproductive middle finger.

“Huh,” Bucky says, pilfering a handful of crunchy fries from Sam’s plate, “you two could give the Grady twins a run for their money.”

 

\--

 

Sam gets over his hang-ups soon enough, because wringing himself out emotionally is exhausting and he already runs, like, five miles a day; he doesn’t need extra tiring shit on top of all that. So he lifts his pining ass up by the bootstraps a week later, and says to Natasha, “Let’s get dinner sometime.”

“We’re having dinner right now,” she replies, twirling the pasta he painstakingly rolled through his Kitchen Aid mixer attachment (also known as the devil’s torture device) in his homemade pesto sauce. She lifts her fork, and levels him with a look that’s both _See? This is food and we are eating it_ and _damn, this is some good pesto_.

“True,” he says, “but I was thinking, maybe — Anthony’s. Get some real Italian. Something authentic.”

“There something in your kitchen I oughta be worried about?”

Sam wilts, just barely. A _fraction_. He completely and entirely respects the words ‘no’ and ‘fuck off’, especially when it’s subtly and masterfully implied. Still, he rallies. “Nope, that’s a grade-A kitchen. Passes health code all the time and I don’t even have to pay the inspector off.”

Natasha squints a little, the way she does when she’s a second away from puzzling something out, and then, “ _Oh_.”

“I was trying to ask you out,” he agrees, because it’s obvious.

“Sam,” she says, and nudges her fingers against his, slow and purposeful. “I’m not… good. With relationships. Romantic ones or otherwise.”

He turns his hand over, palm facing up; in case she needs it. “You don’t have to be.” He pauses. “Can I ask why?”

“Sure can,” she says, an edge of hardness creeping into her tone. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and he realizes that while he _can_ ask and she can tell him, perhaps he shouldn’t have and she shouldn’t have to. Still, she says, “It takes a long time for me to feel connections with people. Romantic or otherwise. One of the many reasons I work with animals. No expectations…”

He takes a breath. What she’s describing reminds him of a seminar he sat through that combed through sexuality and gender-- that there’s more to attraction than straight and gay and bisexual. “People are assholes.”

“The worst.”

“Feel free to tell me to kick rocks at any point here, but: how long does it usually take?”

“A while,” she says, a little sadly. She takes his hand. “For what it’s worth, I like you. I know I like you.”

He strokes his thumb across her knuckles. “But it’s not there.”

“No,” she agrees with a sad smile. “Not yet.”

 _Yet_ sticks in his brain in the weeks to come, like a hopeful echo.

 

The day after dinner, Steve gives him a look — a tiny lift in his eyebrows that’s more a question than anything else — and he volleys with a shrug. He’d rather take a hit to his credentials than divulge what Natasha told him. She promised, that night, to be honest with him whether or not she ever felt the same as he; and Sam, in return, promised not to pine, and let their friendship run the course it would’ve regardless. It feels hopeful, and nice, and at the end of the day he’s got Steve and Doodle and some new great friends.


End file.
